The Savage

“Yes.” Reed’s eyes hardened. “But if he is stealing from our neighbors, then your obligation to him is at an end. Married or not, if he’s guilty, you don’t owe him anything more. And you have to consider what to do about it.”

Summer did consider her brother’s suspicions. She thought of nothing else for the rest of the week, waking or sleeping. In her morbid contemplations she began to envision the worst, while her dark dreams were filled with raiding Comanches, with Lance as their leader. She saw him riding at the head of the war party, bare-chested, his face streaked with black paint, eagerly spurring on his galloping mount, brandishing his long, wicked lance…

She couldn’t believe he was guilty, and yet…

She couldn’t help the niggling doubts, couldn’t help wondering if there might be something to Amelia’s accusations after all.

No, her sister had lied. Amelia had never overheard Lance plotting to steal cattle from the ranchers.

Yet no matter how many times Summer told herself the possibility was absurd, she couldn’t deny that Reed’s arguments made sense. Lance had been disappearing at night. And he hadn’t defended himself the night of the barbecue. Perhaps because he didn’t have a defense?

Had he invited his Comanche kin south to raid? Was he aiding them even now?

Was he distancing himself from her now to prevent her from learning the truth? Or in order to protect her? Because if he was caught, he didn’t want her involved?

She had to know. The nerve-shredding uncertainty was almost worse than the truth. She didn’t know what she would do if he was guilty, yet she would rather know clearly what she was facing. She had to discover what Lance had been up to this past week, where he had been.

If he ever came home, she would question him. If not, she would have to search for him. To demand answers he wouldn’t want to give.

In the end she didn’t have to search for him. On Friday afternoon Summer walked back from the big house to their cabin and found Lance in their bedroom, stuffing a change of clothing into his saddlebags.

He didn’t speak when she paused in the doorway. Didn’t even look at her. Summer felt her heartbeat falter. He seemed well enough, until she saw the dark-shadowed eyes rimmed with fatigue. Worried, uncertain, she drank in the sight of him.

“Lance?”

He didn’t answer as he folded a shirt.

“Where…have you been?”

His expression was hard, shuttered, when he glanced up. “What difference does it make?”

“I…I’m your wife. I’ve been worried about you.”

His mouth curled at the corner, but he continued to work in silence.

“Are you hungry? I haven’t started supper yet, but—”

“Don’t bother. I’m not staying.”

His response was sharp and unyielding, distancing, shutting her out. Her heart sank. “At least let me fix you something to eat.”

“I can feed myself.”

Of course he could, Summer thought with regret. He could care for himself better than she could. He had always been a loner. Self-sufficient in ways she could never dream of being. He didn’t need her, didn’t want her…

She searched his face, which was set like flint, hearing the grim, deep echo of his last remark. This was the old Lance, the hard-bitten, unforgiving stranger she had once been half-afraid of. She could see no hint of the tender side he’d recently shown her. None of the gentle, vulnerable, sensitive lover she had come to know. Where had all the sweetness gone?

She drew in a shaky breath. “Lance…about this week. You’ve been gone a good deal. And…some people are beginning to wonder where you’ve been, what you’ve been up to. They suspect…Lance, please…I have to know.”

He froze in the act of fastening a buckle, not looking up.

Aware of the sudden, dangerous tension in the room, Summer twisted her fingers together and hastened to reassure him. “I could understand, Lance, truly. If you were trying to get back at Prewitt…if you wanted revenge for what he did to your livery…But please. I hope…I hope you’ll reconsider. It isn’t worth it. You’ll destroy everything you’ve worked for—we’ve worked for—if you keep this up.”

He heard her words as if from a great distance, as if he were outside himself looking on. But his body felt the physical impact. His gut tightened with every damning word of accusation and defense, locking the air inside his chest.

“You think I did it.” His tone was controlled, uninflected, but she caught the rawness in the quiet words.

“I…” She faltered.